


The Black Ribbon

by tripodion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, Case Fic, Conspiracy, Cowboy John, Cowboys, Drama, M/M, Mystery, Oilmen, Post-War, Private Investigators, Roaring 20s, Undercover Sherlock Holmes, Wild West, World War I, american west, something's rotten out in the oil fields
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:07:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22146904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tripodion/pseuds/tripodion
Summary: “Their frail human nature was subjected to a strain greater than it was made for; the fires of greed had been lighted in their hearts, and fanned to a white heat that melted every principle and every law.”—Oil!, Upton Sinclair
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 16





	1. The Man in the Tree

_Mike,_

_Below is the prologue for the manuscript. As you've requested — many times, over many drinks that you still owe me for, I may add — I have tried to stay true to the facts as I remember them being. But then again, we know these gears aren't as greased as they used to be. And forty years ain't exactly the friendliest companion to memory, much less public interest. Who'd want to hear the ramblings of an old cattleman who can barely tie his shoes anyhow? But you're the expert, as you've claimed over the years and beers and much whiskey, so I figure why the hell not? I feel like I've got the handle on this damned typewriter at last._

_Also, Molly would like to make it known that she has been working on her rhubarb cobbler, and wants you to come round sometime to the post and be her willing audience. Between you and me, you may want to give her some more time to hammer down all the nails on that one._

_Be in touch soon,_

_J.H.W._

_12 February 1962_

* * *

When I was young, there were two things in the world that I knew to be true: Texas had enough space for anything man could dream up — at least as far as money, or land, or love — and that meant Texas had space for me. Coming from Iowa, all I knew up til then was farming and a little horsehandling, particularly when it came to roping cows. Mam used to say the land was my real mother because my hair was the color of the cornfields, but it turns out it was also the color of the dunes, of wild Morabs and Aztecas waiting to be saddled, of the sun setting across the wide, flat plains.

Like people of any age with a sense of adventure, I knew I wanted something else. There was more to life than plowing, cowtipping, and aimless joyrides in my dad's old Coupe, which we'd sheared the top off to turn into a sled years back. There was more to life than spiking punch with corn whiskey at the school dance and fooling around in the fields, fun as it was. Yet that kind of life was simple, and I could see my future as it would have been: finding a nice girl in gingham linen, marrying her, raising the next brood of wild, blond children to keep the farm open. It was a nice dream, but I wanted something bigger. And maybe one day after I'd had my fun, I'd go back and settle into the old house I was born in, and find that nice gingham girl.

I waited long enough to get my school papers and make some extra savings on the farm, then I boarded the next train to Kansas City and took the Katy all the way to Texas. Even now, I feel how my heart hammered so — it seemed that every minute that passed I saw something new, something I'd never seen before. It's hard to understand today how it felt. Back then, the world was twenty miles wide. Sometimes you'd get news from names that drummed up certain images of fantastical, glittering places: Paris, London, Russia, China. The first war hadn't quite touched the remote towns yet, and the most I'd ever heard of it was when Geannie Grady's five sons all up and left Des Moines to fight in France and never came back. Well, George did, but in a box that word around town said was full of little tiny pieces of what once had been George, before he stepped on a land mine in Verdun.

But, it was 1918, and that had happened to George, not to me. I wanted adventure, and to a young man who not only thought he knew everything, but that he'd live forever, this seemed like a straight shot almost too good to be true. I hung up my spurs almost as soon as I entered Texas, and enlisted into the A.E.F.

_[NOTE: I will not talk here about the war, Mike. You may say this book will not sell without it, but I will not do it. I'm afraid I must insist on that, for my own sake. Talking over whiskey is one thing, but sharing the bloodiness of war with all of America is quite another. I'd like to keep it between those fortunate few in my circle who already know. - J.W.]_

I came back to Texas almost two years later, left arm slung up after a bullet had torn through it, barely into my third decade but already feeling as if I'd aged forty years since. No one had said a word about what war truly was, but now I knew, had seen and lived it for myself, and it was a great and terrible experience that is as much a part of me as my own soul and mind and matter.

After my arm had healed up enough, I took a job in the oil fields, manning the derricks as they drew out black gold from the earth. And I suppose that was around the time I met Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

_**Baker, Texas** _

_**1921** _

* * *

The day was good for a ride. The sky above was bright and blue and big, the rolling clouds forming a thin blanket that fluttered across the sun, casting their great dark shadows on the plains.

Busting out Gladstone was the easiest part. No one at the corral had much need for the older horse, but he still had a little spirit in him yet, and at a full gallop his stride could match any prize pony. John had called off at lunch, knowing he'd have nothing but idle hands if left to his own devices on the derrick, which hadn't yielded more than a handful of barrels all week. Although a dry well meant little bread come payday, his belly was full from breakfast, his mind was racing, and the day was too good to pass up playing another round of cards, drinking and waiting for something that might never come.

This was what he had wanted: the hot wind in his hair, cooling the sweat at his temples, the awesome power of a horse as it ran, kicking up dirt and dust as they sped through the yellow brush. He felt the grime of the derrick slide far and away, back behind him. Out here the wind could drown the clinking drone of the drill boring into the earth, and the sound of explosions, the engines of biplanes as they passed so close to his head he felt he might touch them if he stood up, wash out the trench smell of mud and blood and gunpowder from his nose. Out here, he could at least feel free, for a little while.

He ran with Gladstone until his shoulder began to ache. It was easy to pretend it was from handling the reins of a rough horse, but Gladstone was both too long broken-in and too short of temper, and he himself was too well-trained to handle even the meanest horse for that to be the true cause. No, that wasn't it. Wearily, he made to turn back. Back to civilization, the world, which continued to drain all it could from the earth and everyone else.

The sudden burst of gunfire nearly made him fall from the saddle. One, two, three shots. Head whipping around, he could hear the echo from over the dune. Gladstone nervously tamped the ground, and John debated his options as he filed through the possibilities. Bandits were rare this close to town. That left a whole other coterie that could be hiding in the hills: train robbers, bootleggers, stickups, cow-rustlers. But they wouldn't be up before sunset, much less firing off anything that told the law of their location.

The smell of gunpowder, grainy, ashen and gritty, wafted towards him on the wind. He took a deep breath, and the dark thing in him that ached to smell it again spoke, and made him guide the horse forward.

* * *

He had expected, perhaps, a father teaching his son how to shoot. Perhaps some hillbilly out to snag a gopher for dinner. He had, by the time he crested over the hill and lowered his guard, expected to see something he could readily make sense of.

What he didn't expect — could never expect — was to see a man hanging by the neck from the branch of a scraggly mesquite. At first glance he thought the man was long dead, but he'd heard the gunshots, was sure it could come from nowhere else. As he slowly ventured closer, the man's head lifted and he raised the gun at his side, pointing straight up at the noose looped around the branch.

The sound of the first shot, much closer now, nearly unseated him from the horse. By the time the second went off, he'd lifted himself out of the saddle on his own power, stalking towards the tree. As the man lifted his gun once more, John un-holstered his own at his ankle and, aiming carefully, fired a single shot. The man dropped unceremoniously to the ground, the now-frayed end of the noose burnt and smoking in the wind.

John's shadow fell over him as the man coughed and spluttered in the dirt. A thousand questions ran through his mind — _what the hell, why the hell, how the hell_ — but what came out was:

"I can string you back up if you got any more bullets you want to waste."

The man turned over, peering up at him with eyes the crystalline blue of a clear winter sky, his face red and smudged with dirt around a dark bandana.

"I had it handled well enough."

"Sure, I reckon you thought you had it well in hand up until you met your maker." A dark thought crossed his mind, the shadow of a cloud passing over the valley. "Unless, you know, you were looking to..."

"Don't be ridiculous," the man scoffed, sitting up, his voice imperious despite the rope around his neck. "I meant to do no such thing."

"Anybody string you up? Something I should report?"

"To whom, exactly? The sheriff down at the watering hole? I think not."

"So did they or didn't they?"

"If you _must_ know, I did it myself. A test, of sorts."

"You hanged yourself as...a test."

"I _hung_ myself as a test, yes. Do keep up, unless that trip in the saddle has scrambled what's left of your brains."

"I don't know whereabouts you come from mister, but in my area of the world we show a little more gratitude when someone saves our lives."

"I told you, I had it handled—" He began, but was cut off as John went behind him and grabbed the end of the rope, dragging him back towards the tree.

"What are you doing?!" He choked out, hands flying to grasp at the knots.

"What does it look like?" John snorted. "I'm stringing you up again. Figuring as you're so smart, you can find your own way back down without my help."

"You're ruining the experiment!" The man hissed as John began to climb up. "An unaccounted variable is absolutely disastrous—" 

"This ain't a book, fella. Life is full of unaccounted variables. Like me hanging you from this tree."

Any argument the man might have had was cut off as the rope tightened.

"Stop, alright! _Stop!_ "

The rope slacked as John stopped climbing and the man took a deep, stuttering breath. John leapt down from the tree and grinned.

"Well all you had to do was say so."

He held his hand out through the swirling dust.

"Name's John. Pleased to meet your acquaintance."

The man hesitated for a moment, then took it, pulling himself up. He was a little taller than he looked on the ground, and as he stared down at John he pulled the bandana away from his face. He smiled, his grip strong and calloused.

"Sherlock."

"Well, Sherlock...you hungry?"

* * *

Those clear blue eyes narrowed carefully as they watched him beneath dig through his pack for his canteen beneath the shade of the mesquite.

"You're a loud thinker, you know that?" John said, straightening up as he tossed the canteen over his shoulder.

Sherlock ignored him in favor of scrambling to unwind the lid, throat tilted back to take huge, draining gulps of water, as if he'd never had a drop before in his life.

"Easy! Drink slow, else you'll get sick."

It took a moment for his words to settle, but the man listened and began to take slow, measured sips. John could almost see rationality settling back into his brain again.

"Alright, I reckon you're ready for the next part." He said, ripping a hunk of bread off from the loaf and tossing it in his lap. "Eat that slow too, unless you want to water the tree. Looks like it needs it though."

He reached back into his bag and unfolded the napkin he'd tied up into a bundle. There was lunch: two apples, a rind of cheese, some jerky. He caught Sherlock staring down at it as he gnawed at the crust of bread.

"Looks like you need it too." He shrugged, holding out an apple. Sherlock, realizing he only had the two hands and both were occupied at the moment, set down the bread in favor of the waxen, shiny fruit. John watched as juice ran down his chin, the whole thing gone in only a few bites.

"How long has it been since you last ate?" He asked as Sherlock tipped the canteen back once more. "Or drank?"

The man took a moment, pausing to think. "Three days," he said at last. "But I've gone without for longer."

"Not in the desert," John laughed, incredulous. "Not hanging from a tree."

"No, not hanging from a tree," Sherlock agreed. "But yes to the desert. You'd be surprised at how long you can live off the land if you have to."

"Now that you're somewhat resembling human again, you want to tell me what that was all about?"

"I told you." He sniffed, reaching for the bread. "It was an experiment."

"Yeah, but now I'm curious. What kind of experiment sees a man hanging himself in the middle of nowhere, not knowing if he'll be saved or not?"

"The best kind," Sherlock answered. "And I knew I would be alright."

"No you didn't. No one can know that."

He turned to John and smiled, as if he knew something John didn't. "I can."

"Listen, I ain't got time to argue with a man who was all but sure he'd live to see another day even while the rope was choking the life out of him. I want to know why you got up there in the first place."

"How many lawmen in Texas, John?" Sherlock asked, the sudden turn in conversation throwing him for a loop.

"How many— hell if I know. I reckon at least a handful around every oiltown. Rangers don't often come up around these parts. They're mucking up the border most days."

"It's hard to get an exact number, I won't prescribe it to common ignorance. The point being that jails are so full of rustlers, itinerants, and petty thieves that the other day a man had to be handcuffed to a pole out in Waco for want of a cell. There's more crime than the law rightly knows how to handle. That's where I come in."

John's eyebrows shot up in realization. "You're a criminal."

"A good guess, but incorrect. I'm in the business of catching them. I don't need a badge, or a posse. I just need my mind, and my hands."

"Yeah, well, neither seemed much help to you back there. And how is hanging yourself good for business?"

"A gang of cattle thieves came through town a couple nights back. One of their own was found hung, with gunpowder burns on his chin. He'd almost managed to shoot the rope through. I was testing a theory."

"And?"

" _And_ the result was inconclusive because some cowboy thought he'd play hero. But, no matter. I believe I know who the murderers are anyhow, and it's not one of the thieves."

"Murderers?" John shook his head in disbelief. "You must not be from around here. We don't have murderers, or vigilantes, much less ones named Sherlock."

"I can assure you, John, you most assuredly have all three. And I am indeed a native son, from many different roads, all leading back to the lawless, godforsaken land of Texas."

With that cryptic clue, Sherlock stood, brushing the dirt and breadcrumbs from his pants.

"You don't have much of an accent for a native son."

"Neither do you, I reckon," Sherlock huffed, drawling out the words in a slow, ropey voice, as natural sounding as the postmistress or the bartender at the saloon, before he slipped back into his normal voice. "If I had to guess, I'd say...Indiana?"

"Iowa," he corrected.

"There's always something." Sherlock sighed, then turned around, his pistol aimed at the center of John's heart.

"So you are a criminal."

"Don't be dumb, it doesn't suit you. I just told you what I was, and I told the truth. But night's coming on, and if I want the murderer in jail before dinner I have to get going."

"You might've asked." John said, feeling a bit put out. Technically, Gladstone was not his property. Mike would have his head if he came back without it.

"I might've. But where's the fun in that?" He grinned, pulling the bandana back over his face. "I'd like to thank you, John. If you ever take a break from those godawful rigs to venture into town, do look me up."

"I'd be much obliged if I could have my horse back."

"Tell the owner they'll have him back soon, safe and sound. Think of it as collateral." Sherlock said, tossing the pistol back at him and spurring Gladstone onwards. 

The sun was dipping low in the sky, casting an angelic pink limn around the clouds. John watched as Gladstone and his rider faded into the distance, merging in the horizon with the oncoming night. He glanced down at the gun, and opened the chamber. No bullets left.

He stared at the gun for a long moment then sighed, turning away to start the long walk back to town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again,
> 
> Time is funny — since I last posted I've moved halfway across the world, and still managed to start a new story without finishing the last! Here's hoping we see the end to this one.
> 
> Happy trails,  
> T.


	2. The Kingdom of the Garridebs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The laws of good driving forbade you to go off the magic ribbon except in extreme emergencies...It sounds risky as one tells it, but the heavens are run on the basis of similar calculations, and while collisions do happen, they leave time enough in between for universes to be formed, and successful careers conducted by men of affairs."
> 
> \- _Oil!_ , Sinclair Lewis

_Mike,_

_Many thanks for your notes on the prologue. I have made a few changes, as you suggested. I know you always wondered where exactly Gladstone was those nights, so hopefully you aren't too sore with me—or Sherlock, for that matter. I'm sure he'd tell you he didn't remember it, and if he did, it wasn't his fault, and if it was, he didn't mean nothing by it, & so on & so on..._

_Maybe at this point you want a little more info on these Garridebs. You were back in Houston round the time they showed up. They didn't grace us with their presence for long, like so many other moonrakers and hustlers they were just out for money. As soon as it got hot they'd hop over the border or God knows where and raise Cain until it was cool enough to come back._

_There were four in total: Nathan, Tom Harry, and Howard — though personally seems to me Harry never seemed to have much heart in it. The other three led a merry little gang of bootleggers and cattle thieves up and down the dunes until Howard got himself hanged. I didn't find out til much later the why's and how's, but I knew enough about them to know they were trouble, and my nose was best kept clean. As far as the law was concerned, Lestrade didn't care much so long as they kept their business out of town, and it wasn't til the killings that he got more interested in stepping in, but that was already after Sherlock had come in, and by then it had all become something none of us could anticipate, much less make sense of._

_Chapter one to follow. As always, feel free to write me should you need anything._

_Yours sincerely,_

_J.H.W._

_21 February 1962_

* * *

Angelo's was not a bar—that much the town could agree on. Although it was most decidedly not a bar, it had been nearly everything else — a general store, a pharmacy, a grocer's, a five and dime, a malt shop, and most recently a restaurant of sorts, although you'd be hard-pressed to find anything edible. The only food that had passed through the doors of this particular establishment had been limited heretofore peanut shells and the bits of fruit at the bottom of the grog they most definitely did not serve.

Angelo — and his name was only ever just 'Angelo', or 'boss', or 'pops', or even a 'sir' now and then — was a man notoriously distrustful of strangers, and he had good reason to be, if not only because of the bar that he certainly did not run serving booze he certainly did not have. He'd been in Baker for near twenty years by the time I met him, and word around town was he'd been chased out of Sicily on account of a bad bet, or some kind of family debt, or that he'd been caught in bed with a duke's wife, or caught with the duke himself—the story changed depending on who was telling it. Although he used to joke that he had a bad neck from always looking over his shoulder, I never found out what exactly it was he'd been watching out for.

Like anywhere else, it was never too hard to get hold of liquor in Texas if you had a mind for it. Even after Volstead, the moonrakers kept working at all hours of the night, and the bars never reached the bottom of the bottle. I wasn't much of a drinker myself except on bad days, but I knew the rest of the men at the pump were, huddled in the back booths, nursing a drink of some kind or another, playing cards if it meant not going back to a silent, cold tent. Angelo ran a clean place, even if most of his earnings were under the table; sometimes there was the inevitable fight over money or a lady or just plain bullheaded ego, but most nights were quiet.

It's hard to call what Angelo did a crime, even if it was technically illegal at the time. Crime in Texas operated differently than the rest of the country — it was just as punishable as anything else, but it was hard to get two folks even from one town over to agree on definitions. What might be cold-blooded murder to one judge or jury was justifiable self-defense to another. Thievery and cattle rustling were pretty much the only two things any court could agree on. Rum-running, moonraking, and bootlegging were allowed to spill out under the table, as long as the waves didn't rock the boat, and there wasn't a day when any judge, lawyer, or sheriff wasn't in some booth or another at Angelo's. We all knew what the score was. If you keep your mouth shut, everyone was happy.

Too bad Sherlock Holmes was just about the chattiest boat-rocking bastard this state has ever seen.

* * *

_**Baker, TX** _   
_**1921** _

* * *

The man on his left scratched his chin when he was about to bluff. Black residue under the nails — not oil. Ink. Editor of the Baker Street Herald. Several hundred dollars in debt. Wife about to leave, judging from the bags beneath his eyes and the compulsion to twist at his ring every time the bet was raised. Not one late night at the press, but many, stubble left to grow long past five o'clock.

The other was harder to read. Some people were by nature. Brilliantined hair, stiff and parted at the middle. Freshly shaved. Nails immaculately clean. Only drink he was nursing was a glass of water. No known tells yet, but the night was young. He already managed a respectable share of the pot, but Sherlock still commanded the winnings...

Movement in the periphery. He tensed, hand halfway to the nearest weapon — a glass was closer, but a fork in the eye would do more damage — when a gun clattered to the table, heavy and cold, toppling his stack of chips.

"Rule one round here," a familiar voice growled, "If you're gonna give a man your gun, you better make sure you got another somewhere close by."

He turned, squinting into the light. The dark blur coalesced beneath the new glare of the electric lights into a familiar face, one he'd just seen earlier that day.

"Ah, John. I hadn't expected you to take up my offer to visit so quickly. Do you have the time?"

John said nothing, roughly pulling the chair across from him out and sitting, staring at him with a hard look. The other members of his card game quickly gathered their winnings and dispersed onwards to better and less dangerous tables.

"You stole my horse."

"I stole _a_ horse. I don't believe it was _your_ horse. The time, if you will."

"It's nearly seven." John huffed. "You know, I had to walk most of the way here."

"So you won't mind if I buy you a drink, then."

"Buy me ten. Hell, buy me a horse-full."

"You're in a mood," Sherlock sniffed, sounding rather put-out. "Gladstone, as I'm sure you saw, is just fine outside."

"How — you don't know me from Adam, for one thing. And for another: of course I'm in a mood! I'm looking at the man who near hanged himself not three hours back, and then had the gall to steal my horse and ride off like it was nothing after I saved his sorry, scrawny neck."

" _Hung_ ," he corrected. "I knew you'd have little trouble finding civilization again."

"Like you knew you wouldn't die? Bushwa." John spat, tossing his hat on the table and leaning closer, almost conspiring as he whispered: "Ain't no bullets left in that gun."

"So?"

"Riddle me this, then, genius." John said, licking his lips as he leaned in closer. "How does a man shoot himself out of a noose with an empty gun?"

"Simple. One in the chamber."

"It's a six-shooter. You fired five."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then leaned across the table, pushing the gun into his hands.

"If you're so sure, test your hypothesis."

"What?"

He wrapped John's hand around the butt of the gun and leveled the barrel at the center of his chest.

"Test it. See if you're right."

John stared across the table at him. His finger tensed as if, in a moment, he would fire.

"Two apple juices, on the rocks," came a booming voice, slicing through the tension. John's hands fell away from the gun and it wobbled to the table. A large shadow came over them as Angelo, the bartender-turned-"bartender" set down their drinks.

"What's this?" John asked, eyebrow raised.

"I told you," Sherlock said, adding up on his hands, "You walked. You're thirsty. Therefore, I ordered you a drink."

"Apple juice ain't really my cup of tea, if you catch my meaning."

"It isn't really anyone's, John, but in this day and age Harding has us drinking juice." He sighed, setting the drink in front of him and raising his own. "Cheers. To your enduring health."

"And yours, if you don't get in the way of it first."

They each raised their glasses and John took a sip, then nearly spit it out.

"What kind of apples this made from?"

Sherlock smiled, winking. "Forbidden fruit."

"Funny name for whiskey," John mumbled, knocking back the glass in one go. "Another please. I believe you owe me one."

"And you shall have it." Sherlock said, gesturing to Angelo as he shuffled around behind the bar before leaning back in his chair, scanning the room.

"Expecting someone?" John asked. Past the initial impression, the whiskey was settling into his bones nicely, driving out the evening cold.

"Hopefully not." Sherlock answered, his gaze lingering on the door for a moment before settling back on John. "You shouldn't drink on an empty stomach."

"You ain't my mother, last I was aware."

"Angelo!" Sherlock called as the man in question returned with a fresh drink. "What do you have on the menu tonight?"

"Are you serious?" John laughed as he was handed his glass. "Angelo doesn't—"

"I believe the wife made chicken and potatoes." Angelo answered. "Want her to save a plate?"

"Two, if you will. And send Katie our thanks."

John blinked in surprise. "You really _are_ from here, huh?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Angelo owes me a favor."

"And that favor includes homemade dinners?"

"'Supper'," Sherlock corrected. "And funnily enough John, it seems that it does. Fortunately, Katie is a good cook. Angelo wouldn't know his way around a spoon if his mother'd had relations with the cutlery drawer—"

"I cook well enough, thank you." Angelo sniffed, unloading two plates on the table. John's stomach growled as he removed the cloth napkin, revealing perfectly browned chicken, a loaf of seeded rye, red potatoes glistening with hot gravy, a pat of butter melting over a steamed cob. He hadn't had a good meal in ages, and dug in accordingly.

"Eat quickly." Sherlock advised. "We don't have much time left."

"Time for what?" He asked through mouthful of brown bread. "And what's this 'we' business? I ain't exactly got a horse to stand on."

"Don't need one where we're going."

"Again," he swallowed. "What _we_? You think you can feed and liquor me up and all is forgiven?"

"Isn't it?" Sherlock frowned, as if any other conclusion wasn't logically possible.

"Hate to break the news to you, but people don't really work that way."

"They don't. But you do."

He glanced up from his plate. Sherlock was leaning back in his chair, food untouched, watching him over the rim of his glass as he drank, smiling like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

John scoffed and shook his head. "You don't really know me."

"I know enough."

"Yeah, you keep going on thinking that."

"I will. How's your shoulder?"

John coughed, nearly dropping his fork. "S'fine. Why?"

"I imagine a bullet wound hurts in the cold."

"Should've thought of that when you took my horse, then."

"Perhaps I should've." Sherlock said, not unthoughtfully. "Did you fight by air or by land?"

"You know everything. Why don't you tell me?"

There was a pause as Sherlock glanced him over once, twice, as if considering every inch carefully.

"You enlisted late," he began finally, "because your mother needed a hand with the farm, and cornfield etiquette means you're nothing if not a people-pleaser. But the amateur horsemanship gave you enough leverage to be assigned to the cavalry. Everything was going well enough until you were shot on a scouting expedition, am I correct?"

John tried to keep his mouth from falling open in shock.

"How — you can't possibly know these things."

"No, not with absolute certainty, but I can make an educated guess. You're older than the typical doughboy. You yourself said you're from Iowa, which is hardly anything but corn and farmland. Pershing liked to keep the horses off the fighting fields because there weren't many to spare. Your left arm moves stiffly at the shoulder, and you're too young yet for arthritis. You were shot through the back, from a high angle, indicating a marksman aiming at a passing horseman. Stop me if I'm wrong."

"That's incredible," John blurted, unable to stop himself. Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, then smiled.

"Nothing is incredible." Sherlock replied, long fingers idly playing with his glass. "Only observation, and logical conclusions." He knocked the rest back, a red flush cresting the edges of his cheeks. With the bandana out of the way, John could see a little constellation of moles and freckles dotting his throat. A very nice throat, pale except for the faint red mark of the rope.

"I take it you didn't serve."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his head tilted. "I didn't." He admitted. "What gave me away?"

"You're not broken like the rest of them."

That had Sherlock's attention. His eyes flicked up to John's face before settling back down, a small, melancholic smile coming to his face.

"As I'm sure you know, John, there are other ways than war to break a man."

"Yeah, well, suppose I could count the ways, but I'd rather not wander upstage." John grumbled. His shoulder had begun to ache, but whether it was from the cold, the booze, or from Sherlock's reminder of its existence, he didn't care to know.

"Then I hope you've eaten your fill. Time's wasting." 

"Why, we got somewhere to be?"

"'What's this _we_ business?'" Sherlock parroted back.

"Fine, you caught me." John held his hands up. "I'm interested. What is this 'we' business?"

"Those cattle thieves I told you about. Four brothers — well, three now. Name of Garrideb. Heard of 'em?"

"Sure. Word was they took a few heads off Doyle's land not a month ago."

"Yes, and I'm sure that much is true. I put the colloquial bee in their bonnet tonight. I want to be there when it stings." He said with a sly smile. For a moment, John thought he smelled gunpowder. He shook his head, almost as if he were trying to clear it.

"Whatever happened to 'In jail by dinner'?"

"Please, John," Sherlock snorted, knotting the dark bandana around his throat. "Give me some credit. It's barely even time for supper." He stood then, a wild look in his eye as he smiled. "Now let's go, the game is on!"

* * *

When I was young, my father would let me stand up behind the great plate windshield, and I'd pretend I was flying, with the bugs in my teeth and the summer wind blowing through my hair, a king atop his throne on the bench seat, the air ripe with the smell of corn stalks baking all day under the sun. I never felt more free than then, standing like I owned the world, except when I was in Texas.

Night in Texas is a special creature. Very different from Iowa, or anywhere else. It's big, and empty. Full of something that you don't really want to put a name to unless you're in it. The rattlers slink down to their holes. The mice come out, ears twitching for the swoosh of predators as they scurry beneath the owls, perched on cacti, waiting. Out in the hills sometimes you can hear men hunting in the scrub for wild hogs, sometimes you can hear them hunting for each other, spoiling to take what someone else's got, gainfully or no. Oil speculators and surveyors sneak out in the dead of night, trying to get a jumpstart on competition as the derricks clink and clank in and out of the earth like birds sipping for water, manned by skeleton crews to keep the black gold flowing by sun or moon.  
  
Sherlock Holmes did not, strictly speaking, have a car. I think the statute of limitations has been well-enough passed that I can say comfortably he was not altogether against passing up an unmanned vehicle if it meant getting from point A to B that much faster. And for the most part, he usually returned them — one owner had found his Ford, fresh off the line, parked in his driveway one morning, right where he had left it, leaking pond water from the spray of bullet holes.

I don't think the West has seen any man like him before or since, perhaps the rest of the world neither. He looked down his nose at using a gun — or having one used on him — but knew how to disarm a man ten different ways with his bare hands in under a minute. He was an apt survivalist who couldn't tell Polaris from Mars, yet still knew how to survive in the desert off edible cacti and a dry creek bed. I don't think I ever saw him read a book for fun, but he could rattle off nearly every sensational crime committed in the tri-state area in the past thirty years. He was a brilliant man — on occasion, even a good one — and, as I found out quickly, he was full of surprises.

* * *

**_Baker, TX_ **

**_1921_ **

* * *

"How is it you know where we're going?" John asked, wind ruffling his hair. The consecutive whiskeys had sent his brain floating somewhere behind them, head resting against the cool metal frame as they barreled down the dirt roads, heading for a destination he had neither mind nor presence to care for.

"Little bird told me," Sherlock said, leaning forward to squint out of the tiny windshield. "You've been out this way before?"

John opened his eyes and raised his head, glancing out the window. "Oh sure, once or twice. Just to drill."

"You don't mix business and pleasure, then?" Sherlock asked, and something in his tone made John pause, something dangerous, as if he were daring him. He turned in his seat.

"I try not to make it a habit." He answered. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, just wondering." Sherlock hummed. "Idle thoughts."

John frowned. Sherlock didn't seem like the type for small talk. His hands thrummed lightly against the wheel. He didn't seem the type to be nervous, either. A sudden thought occured to him through the whiskey fog.

"It's alright if you, you know...drive on the other side."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm saying, if you drive. On the other side. It's fine. Ain't my business."

"I know it's fine." Sherlock sniffed. "I'll drive on whatever side I like."

"Well...good." John finished lamely. He had just begun to wonder _what the hell was that about —_ when Sherlock took a sudden right, nearly putting the car on two wheels and sending John smashing into the door as he swerved.

" _Easy!_ " He shouted over the roar of dust and wind. "I ain't trying to meet my maker tonight, thank you."

"Rest assured, John, we've got someone else on our dance card tonight. And hold on to that, won't you?" He said, tossing his gun into John's lap.

"But...what am I gonna do with an empty gun? You may as well give me a fish."

"Oh," Sherlock grinned. "I imagine you'll find a way to put it to good use."

* * *

The Garrideb hideout was an open secret in town, particularly due to its reputation as the closest reliable gin mill, as well as the local pig farm. As such, you could smell it miles off, and on the more rowdy nights their parties could be heard far across the sand, fires lit in the yard, guns popping off towards the stars, women laughing, dogs barking.

It was quiet now as John and Sherlock walked up to the front door. An oil lamp was lit somewhere inside the house, just visible past the grimy pane.

Sherlock raised his hand, and knocked.

A curse from inside. The oil lamp dimmed, and the house took on a synthetic silence, as if someone were afraid to move.

"Sorry for the late call Mr. Hope!," Sherlock called through the door. "Can we have a word?"

A voice came from inside, strained and reedy. "Who all's with you?"

"Myself, and my colleague."

Silence. Then boots on creaking wood.

The door opened a fraction and a bloodshot eye peeked out, lit from below by the slow glow of the oil lamp.

"Pigs are already up for the night."

"We're not here for pigs."

The eye narrowed.

"Hooch is out."

"We aren't here for that either. But that's rather providential _—_ we've brought our own." Sherlock said, producing a small brown bottle from the inner pocket of his coat.

The eye darted from him, to the bottle, to John, and back.

"Enough to share?"

"Enough to share," Sherlock confirmed.

"Alright, hold on."

The door closed, then opened fully, revealing a man neither short nor tall, with a scraggly beard streaked in grey and lines around his eyes from squinting into the sun.

"Let's have it, then," He said, gesturing to the bottle, which Sherlock handed him. He knocked the cap off and took a deep pull, wiping his mouth. "Come on in," he said, standing by to let them pass into the dark foyer.

"I take it the brothers aren't in tonight." Sherlock said, eyes glancing around, though the silence of the place already gave him his answer.

"They're off raising hell in the hills." Hope said, scratching his beard as he walked past them, his gait slightly wobbly. "Don't know whereabouts."

Sherlock smiled. In the darkness and light of the oil lamp his eyes the color of the silver glint on a weathervane before a storm. "Yes, you do."

The man scoffed, taking another swig from the bottle as he sat heavily in his seat, feet resting on the table. "You think they can tell me from Adam? They don't share nothing with the lower folks."

"I have a feeling they'd be more interested in you if they knew what you were up to behind their backs."

The bottle paused, halfway to his lips.

"What do you mean?"

"It's quite simple. Rather pedestrian actually. You, Jefferson Hope, are a stagecoach hand turned thief who fancies yourself a criminal genius. You've been skimming the pot because in what world would the Great Garridebs notice a bottom-sucker like you dipping his hand in the kitty every now and then? It's harmless, enough to buy another drink, another girl, distractions. But you got sloppy. And then you got caught."

"I don't-I never _—_ "

"Don't bother lying." Sherlock said, shaking his head. "Howard caught you, didn't he? But he was always the nicer one, and he let you get away with it."

"He didn't _let_ me do anything." Hope protested, pride hurt at the insinuation. Sherlock smiled, as if it confirmed some point still only known to him.

"I want the name."

"The what?" Hope squinted.

"I want the name of the man who you helped blackmail Howard."

"Best of luck to you, friend." He said, taking another sip from the bottle. "Howard's dead, and you should look to the pigs if you want something to squeal."

"No matter. You're a dead man too whether you do or don't."

A bead of sweat appeared on Hope's lip. "You wouldn't _—_ "

"Essence of nightshade." Sherlock said glibly, toying with the little brown bottle, the light flickering over his face as he watched Hope over the oil lamp. "Mix it with enough liquor and a man can't even taste it. I'd say you've got ten minutes left."

Hope stood, toppling his chair.

"Know thyself, Jefferson Hope."

He ran. Barreling past the dining room, he flung open the screen door and bolted out the back.

"Hope!" Sherlock called, running out into the night after him. John followed quickly behind, the two of them making a mad dash against the sand, turned white as snow by the moon.

They raced across the dirt and scrub, out past the empty pig pens, past the junk in yard, the detritus of human life. The moon was full, hanging low, its light falling in waves over the dunes, the sleeping and unknowing world, utterly uncaring if the man staggering ahead of them was good, or if he would live to see the morning, or if he deserved to. What the night knew was only how to witness, how to wrap them up in darkness, how to hide their secrets in its mouth.

John's heart hammered as he ran across the sand. He hadn't felt this rush, the electricity of life, in ages. Joyrides in the countryside, head hanging out the window as the air rushed past, the feeling of a horse between his legs, the great and fearsome power of it, running for his life through the trenches, boots squelching with mud and viscera and the blood of some poor soul more unfortunate than him. It almost made him laugh, this strange miasma of happiness that bubbled inside him. It made him want to raise his head and howl.

Hope turned suddenly, the dark shape of his arm coming up, pointing at Sherlock, aiming for his head. John knew that stance all too well.

He acted almost before he realized what he was doing, arm raised and aiming, drawn upwards like a magnet. And it was then as he fired that John realized Sherlock had been right _—_ had been right with his neck in the noose, had been right with his gun aimed at John's heart, had been right in the bar when he'd dared John on, hand curled around his as he pushed him towards the trigger. He had been right: there had been a bullet left after all.

It found a home just below Jefferson Hope's heart. He fell backwards into the sand at the force of it, and stilled.

John lowered the gun, smoking in the night wind. He jammed it in the back of his pants, the point of the barrel still hot, and ran over, crouching beside the man. He was still alive, but the blood was rushing from his face, his body, into the sand.

"He doesn't have much time left," John said in a rush as Sherlock collapsed beside him, hovering on his knees over the writhing man. "If we hurry we can _—Sherlock!"_

"The name, damn you!" He snarled, as Hope cried out, clutching in vain at the widening red stain spreading beneath his shirt.

"I d-don't remember! Em _—_ M _—_ "

A good man might say a few words to ferry a lost soul onwards, but Sherlock was not a good man, and he dug his thumb into the bullet wound. Hope let out a terrible howl, echoing in the dark, empty, and indifferent desert.

"M-Mor...Mor _—"_

His hand flailed up, as feeble as a fish fresh out of the river. With a kitten-weak grip, he latched onto John's lapel, dragging him down. As he spoke, John could smell the whiskey on his breath, the tobacco juice, the brown, decaying teeth that would fall out soon, fall out when he would not feel them any longer, plinking down to join the rest of his bones.

"Morecroft." He whispered finally. His hand began to fall, but John caught it by the wrist, feeling the last flutter of pulse as it fled his body.

"Sherlock, come on, he's still alive _—_ " He heard himself saying, as if from far away. "Let's get him to the car, we can—we can—"

"It's pointless, John. He's dead."

John looked up at him. His curls had come loose from their careful containment, wild and backlight by the moon, and he had the mad, unbidden thought of the devil, here in front of him, in the night and the sand. This morning his greatest desire had been to fly for a moment with the wind in his hair, and now he was kneeling in some stranger's blood. Tempted to ruin by a brief moment of flight, and now he was crashing to the ground.

"He's dead. No thanks to either of us," he said, almost with a laugh. "Poisoning a man, then shooting him. What kind of justice is that?"

Sherlock didn't answer. And in that terrible silence dawned a more terrible truth that sank like ice in John's gut.

"There was no poison." John huffed.

"No." Sherlock said lowly. "Only the worser ones of his own making. But, as I said before: he had ten minutes."

John stood, no more able to stomach this man before him than the one whose body was cooling on the ground.

"You're a rotten sonofabitch, you know that?"

"And you just shot a man to save my life." Sherlock answered. "What does that say about you?"

"Just what in the hell _are_ you? What kind of man does this?"

"I needed a name," Sherlock bit back, "and I got it."

"No, _I_ got it," John answered. "And if you're willing to pay the price of a man's life for a name, so be it." He reached into his trousers and tossed the gun at him, still warm. "You want it so bad, you can shoot me yourself."

"There aren't any bullets left." Sherlock protested.

"Well you got one," John pointed out, gesturing to Hope's body, the blood sinking into the sand. "He ain't gonna mind."

"Tell me the name."

"No."

"John! Tell me!"

"Know what I think?" John said, eyes narrowing. "I think you took me along tonight because you knew a man needed persuading. So you put a few drinks in me and make me think we're friendly enough, just so you don't have to be the one to pull the trigger. You may act like you're hard stuff, but when it comes down to it, you've got no more killer in you than a cow _—_ "

He was cut off as Sherlock barreled into him at the waist, aiming low. They hit the sand together, scrambling around for any loose piece of clothing to grab. Sherlock went for his shirt, John the bandana at his throat.

"I saved your life twice you sorry sonofabitch!" John growled, throwing a handful of sand in his face.

"I didn't ask you to!" Sherlock spat back, a well-aimed punch landing in the corner of John's mouth. John hooked a leg behind him and flipped them over, twisting the bandana in his fist to press on Sherlock's windpipe.

They froze as the dead man beside them moaned.

"He's alive," John breathed, the fight forgotten in an instant as he moved off the man below him.

"Nonsense," Sherlock said roughly, sitting up, rubbing at his throat. "Air in the body. Escapes after death."

They watched the body in silence, waiting to see if anything more would happen. Slowly, a dark stain appeared on Hope's pants.

Suddenly, the bizarre and surreal nature of their situation hit John full force, and he began to laugh.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

Everything, everything and nothing was at once so funny and so sad he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He could taste the hot iron tang of blood on his teeth.

"John?"

"We're idiots!" He said between peals of laughter. "We're two idiots who got nothing better to do than watch a dead man piss himself."

A smile flickered to Sherlock's face. "They've got some cans out back if you'd rather watch paint dry." He offered, and just like that there they were, two madmen laughing together in the desert in front of a corpse.

Slowly, their laughter died down and they sat in silence as the wind blew the sand past the moon, low in the sky.

John turned his head aside and spat, a trickle of red running down his mouth. "Full moon tonight."

"Mmm." Sherlock hummed in agreement. "Terrible timing. We've got a body to get rid of. Preferably before the rest of them come back."

"You." John corrected, standing and brushing the sand off his pants.

"Pardon?"

"You," he repeated. " _You_ have a body to get rid of."

"Please," Sherlock scoffed. "You're just as liable as I am. You're the one who shot him, after all."

"Am I?" He laughed, walking over to the car. "It's your gun, genius. And now your fingerprints are on it too."

He leaned into the driver's side and turned the key. The engine roared to life as he climbed in, headlights casting their long glare across the dark sand.

"So I guess that makes his blood on both our hands," John called over the rattle of the motor.

"John _—_!" Sherlock called, scrambling up from the sand as he ran towards the car.

"Think of it as collateral." John barked. And with that, he pushed the pedal down and drove away, leaving the lone, dark figure of Sherlock Holmes behind him, standing in the desert with the body he put there.


End file.
